“The thing about burying a Christian mother is that, amid all the tears, you find yourself mimicking the grin that characterized her life. She buried a husband, a son, and plenty of dreams, but never the hope that propelled her forward. Hope gives birth to thanksgiving and thanksgiving to joy. It doesn't spread as fast as a cold, but pretty close.”

“She murmured a 'Thank you', seated herself and her buried hopes in this chair which did not whirl round, and leaned her arms upon a table which did not even dream in mahogany.”

“Over and over again, stories in women's magazines insist that women can know fulfillment only at the moment of giving birth to a child. They deny the years when she can no longer look forward to giving birth, even if she repeats the act over and over again. In the feminine mystique, there is no other way for a woman to dream of creation or of the future. There is no other way she can even dream about herself, except as her children's mother, her husband's wife.”

“Alyssa Arryn had seen her husband, her brothers, and all her children slain, and yet in life she had never shed a tear. So in death, the gods had decreed that she would know no rest until her weeping watered the black earth of the Vale, where the men she had loved were buried. Catelyn wondered how large a waterfall her own tears would make when she died.”

“With Thanksgiving approaching, I quietly hoped this would finally be the year I wouldn't find myself at the children's table.”

“Living to an extraordinary age, she mourned them all equally as she buried her husband and, one by one, her children. In this suffering she found the best sort of perfection--the kind that never demands it of others.”